


White Night Fantasy

by shobogan



Category: Marvel 616, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Demon/Human Relationships, Friendship, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5411825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shobogan/pseuds/shobogan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slym Dayspring is not the type of wizard to summon demons, but with his only friends in danger, it becomes his only choice.</p>
<p>He didn't expect to make a new one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Night Fantasy

Slym Dayspring is, in many ways, the prototypical wizard; he’s precise and methodical, a rigid pillar of restraint, no hair out of place and no magic slipping his fingers. He speaks every spell with careful intent, and never moves without grim forethought. 

That happens, when you’re cursed with a demon’s eyes. 

Most people don’t realise, of course; they think the ruby spectacles are an affectation, and make snide jokes about wands up his backside. He ignores them, though he can’t help a private smile when Redd sets their quills afire.

He was prepared to be lonely, when he came to the academy; isolation had long been a comfort, after all. He told himself there was no craving for belonging and understanding, in his decision; he just needed to learn everything he could about the power he wields, inborn or forced upon him. 

But seeing the cheerful camaraderie bustling through the corridors made him wistful, made him remember a life before ravaging fire and desperate isolation. His few advances were clumsy, and often rebuked; only Redd responded with true kindness.

Then, of course, there was Drake. It’s been said that the boy is more a jester than a wizard, and Slym agreed - until he noticed that laughter, too, can be a shield. Drake extends it to everyone around him; it seemed only fair, to protect him in turn.

It’s a strange bond the three share, but it’s more than he ever hoped for. 

It’s no surprise, then, that he would summon a monster from the deepest pits to keep them safe.

 

It was meant to be safe; a simple journey into the forest, to collect supplies. As always, the three friends formed their own troupe, following the meticulous list scrawled on Slym’s scroll.

The day was bright and warm. Kneeling amidst the wildflowers, watching Redd talk to birds and Drake juggle berries, Slym felt himself relax.

He should have known better.

It happened so _quickly_. One moment, they were bathed in light, the air filled with buzzing and birdsong. The next, everything was dark and cold and silent. Slym was on his feet instantly, but he could barely see; when he tried to call out, the shadows swallowed his voice. 

A dozen incantations raced through his head as he drew his wand. It had to be something basic, simple, he didn’t know what they were dealing with - 

_**Silly thing.** _

His hand froze. It wasn’t a voice, exactly; it was the echo in a forgotten temple, the rattle of a soldier’s last breath, the wind in his ears as he fell - 

Suddenly his heart was thudding in his ears, and he could smell the stench of burning skin and feel his brother’s tears against his cheek and he was falling, falling into the fire - 

“Slym!”

It was a different warmth entirely, imbued in her voice; the fire of a hearth, or a forge. Her power blazed between him and the darkness.

**_Interesting._ **

He felt the focus shift, from him to Redd, and a desperate dread yawned in his chest. His wand whipped upward, but Drake must have felt it, too; there was a burst of winter wind, a spontaneous distraction that could easily surge out of control - 

**_So afraid._ **

There was pity in the words, and the chasm inside of him flared hot. 

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

Control. Control matters more than fear or rage or friendship.

_**Ah, yes. I know my path.** _

He heard something, something almost like laughter, and then he was gone.

 

The interrogations were gentle, but he could hear the suspicion beneath the words. He was the only one left, after all.

He described the experience as thoroughly as he could, over and over until it didn’t feel real any more. They were getting frustrated, of course, and he yearned to tell them something _useful_ , but he had nothing. He had no idea what monster it could have been, or where his friends had gone, or why his hands wouldn’t stop shaking - 

“That’s enough.” The headmaster’s voice was quiet, but it had a certain resonance that brooked no argument; Slym was never sure if it was magic or just practice. Then the elder’s hand was on his shoulder, gently guiding him away from the piercing stares. 

“To bed with you. We’ll continue later.”

He felt himself nod. Yes; he would be sharper, with rest. He would remember more, and put the pieces together, and rescue his friends.

 

Sleep, however, brought no clarity. A week passed with no revelations or epiphanies. The researchers were hard at work with the scant clues he could gave them, but there were hundreds of ancient tomes to pore through.

Slym tried to focus on his studies, but his mind wouldn't cooperate. It was like the first few months after the accident, when he could barely concentrate on anything except his family’s screams. 

How had he never noticed that Drake sounded a little like - 

He slammed his door behind him, slouching into the cramped room he’d claimed for himself. (It was storage space, once.) He felt good here, usually, as close to home as he ever could; lately, all he could see were traces of what he’d lost. There was one of Drake’s discarded socks; there was Redd’s broken pocket watch; there was a sketch of them all bought from a travelling fair.

His hands were trembling again, as he sank to his knees on the cold stone. He couldn't just keep waiting for other people to find the answers. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he cought an achingly familiar sight; a worn notebook, stuffed to the brim with notes and scraps and pictures, tucked beneath his bed.

Slym took a breath, and swallowed hard. The mystery of his curse had haunted him for years; he’d scavenged for information everywhere he went. It consumed him, even after he came to the academy; it was Redd who convinced him to let it go, for a while, and find out who he could be without it.

“Who am I without _them_?” A bleak whisper to nothing in particular, as he crawled to his bed.

 

There is a power in words, and history, and obsession. The magic of mystic artefacts is often borne from human passion.

His journal is hardly a relic, but he would be a fool to dismiss its pull on him, or the way it shapes his thoughts. If he had read of the ritual anywhere else, he probably would have been more sensible about it. He probably would have realised that questioning demons wasn’t a rational course for a great sorcerer, never mind a damaged novice.

He probably would have gotten nowhere, while his only friends suffered in the dark.

Slym is, at least, appropriately discreet; he collects what he needs subtly, before slinking into the courtyard hours after the sun went to sleep. He works with his usual precision, painting perfect lines of blood on the dirty stone. He scatters dried herbs and rock dust over the symbol, and waits for it to dry before placing himself in the middle of it.

He crosses his legs, and raises his hands, and begins to speak. 

His voice is low and deep as he murmurs the ancient incantation. The most important part is _remembering_ , focusing on the thing no one can name. Ideally, it will direct his call. Then, finally, he’ll know what kind of monster he’s dealing with.

At first, he doesn’t think it’s working. Maybe he missed something, maybe the notes were wrong, maybe he’s just not strong enough.

Then the starlight opens up, and something steps through.

He knew the ritual would hollow him out. His body is weak and trembling as his arms falls to his sides, and he stares up at what he summoned.

He’s not sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this.

It’s not only that the creature looks almost human; it looks almost like a _boy_ , young enough to be a fellow student.

But his skin is the colour of moonstone, and his eyes blaze white. Golden hair tumbles down his shoulders, and jagged silver wings arch from his back.

He’s nothing like Slym has ever seen, in pictures or in dreams. 

He’s beautiful.


End file.
